Neil Olson - The Icon

Elias first reached for his pistol, but that would make too much noise. Instead, he grabbed the rope and pulled it around the merchant’s neck, yanking him back into the chair.

“Release the knife.”

It clattered to the table, and Fotis quickly snatched it up, his wide eyes narrowing in rage.

“That’s enough. Tie him there, with one hand free. We’ll have answers now.”

The captain had seen this before. Communists, collaborators, once even a German corporal, tied to a chair while Fotis worked on them with the knife. Torture had its uses. Time was wasting, and the fat thief was a likely candidate to break quickly. Still, Elias hesitated.

“Tie him,” Dragoumis demanded, his composure gone, his face flushed with blood.

A hard rap at the door, followed quickly by two more. Fotis went to the window.

“It’s Marko.”

They covered the light again, and a thickset young man slipped in. He nodded to Elias who ignored him. Marko had a way of appearing when there was dirty work to do. He was a baker’s son from a few villages away, but not with the captain’s andartes. He worked directly for Dragoumis. Fotis had shaped him, or perhaps nature had. Nothing unsettled the boy, no order was too grim. Elias believed that he had found such a one in Kosta, but Marko was the genuine item. Perhaps a lack of cleverness was the key. Kosta was clever, damn him.

“What’s happening out there?”

“They’re gathering people in the square,” Marko replied.

“They started with the old men, but now they’re grabbing anyone, even some women. I guess there aren’t enough men left. I was lucky they didn’t take me.”

“Did you kill any Germans at the church?” Fotis asked.

“One,” Elias answered.

“That’s forty they’ll shoot at sunrise. You’ll be lucky if they don’t burn the place.”

“Bastards,” said Marko.

Elias had let his grip relax, and Mavroudas slipped the noose, but only to fall like a heavy sack at the guerrilla leader’s feet.

“Captain, for the love of Christ, spare me from these beasts. You’re not like them, you’re a good man, everyone respects you.”

“Get up.”

“No, please, I beg you. Show mercy, it is in your hands.”

The merchant’s face was damp with tears, his eyes wild. Elias knew that his terror was genuine, yet there was also a staged quality to the outburst. Stamatis seized the captain’s right hand between his own in a prayerlike fashion, and fixed him with a meaningful stare. Even as he struggled to pull his hand free, Elias felt a scrap of paper being pressed against his palm.

The room’s dynamics shifted invisibly. The old thief had made his choice; the rest was up to Elias. He felt the other men’s eyes upon him and knew that Fotis rarely missed a trick.

“Let go of me, you pig.”

“No, listen, I don’t know where the boy is, I don’t-”

He clouted the merchant across the face with his left hand, rotating his body in rhythm with the blow, stuffing the paper into his pocket while his right hand was obscured from view.

“You have no friends here, Mavroudas,” Fotis said quietly, his calm restored. “Marko, put him in the chair and tie him, one hand free. Which hand do you want to lose first, Mavroudas, left or right? You see, you still have some choices.”

Marko worked swiftly. Stamatis, his last card played, nothing to distract him from the horror to come, stared stony-faced at the wall, a whimper escaping him as the knots secured him in place. Elias would not watch. It was one thing to kill strangers in a fight, quite another to slowly drain the life from a man you had known since childhood. Yet the merchant’s actions had caused Mikalis’ death. It was right he should die. So let him; Elias had other work. He headed to the door as Fotis took up the knife.

“Where are you going?”

“To find my men on the north hill.”

“Yes, good. If you must move, the old monastery, not the cave.”

“I know my business,” snapped Elias.

“Of course. Otherwise, stay on the hill and I will find you there.”

“What is the plan if he talks?”

Fotis smiled unpleasantly. “He will talk. We will discuss it when I find you. Take care, my boy.” The last words spoken in that urgent hush which convinced you of their sincerity.

Stamatis’ whimpering reached a higher pitch, almost a scream, as Elias slipped out into the night. “Put something in his mouth” were the last words he heard.

Activity in the square continued. Scattered pairs of Germans were everywhere, pounding on doors, looking for something or someone. Müller probably had a dozen false leads to pursue, fed to him by panicked villagers trying to save themselves. Elias kept within the darkest shadows, thankful for the lack of moonlight, and slipped street to street between houses, stopping at a bend in an alleyway. He found the box in his vest pocket, with only a precious few matches remaining. Drawing out the little scrap of paper with one hand, he struck a match against the cold stone wall with the other.

St. Gregori’s chapel. Spare the boy.

That was all. He touched the dying match to the paper, watched it flare brightly and vanish in ash. St. Gregori’s. A good choice. It was not in regular use, and the captain had a hard time remembering just where it was. To the north somewhere, but well off of any road. Spare the boy? How could he be serious? Did Stamatis not know what Kosta had done to Mikalis? Did he think that Elias was unaware? Why should his mercy be greater than the Snake’s, who had not lost a brother? The old thief had gone soft in his final minutes, but it did not matter.

How to proceed? He no longer trusted Fotis. It was best that he hadn’t mentioned Mikalis, for then Fotis would not trust him to act rationally. The most important thing was to get to the chapel quickly. With the icon he had bargaining power, he could still make some kind of deal. Stamatis would talk; Fotis would be directly on Elias’ heels.

The next few streets were clear of Germans, and this allowed freer movement. Stefano’s tavern was closed, no light visible inside. The Germans might have the barkeep, but Elias doubted it. Not for nothing did he trust messages to Stefano. The man was a collector of secrets but never spoke them unless the price was right, and he was skilled at arriving and departing unnoticed. Where would he be now? Not at home. The wife and child were dead; only the mother-in-law was in the house, and Stefano would not care what happened to her. He would not be walking the streets with a roundup in progress. No, Elias guessed that Stefano was sitting in the darkened tavern, waiting for the danger to pass. The captain went to the back door. There was a bolt on the inside, but Elias remembered that the bracing screws were loose. A polite knock was not going to serve. Without deliberation, he stepped back and threw his left shoulder against the door, which leaped on its hinges, making a terrible noise, but did not give. So much for surprise. The captain stepped back again, shifting his right shoulder forward and placing the bottom of his left foot on the wall behind. Killed by a nervous tavern owner, he mused in disgust; and I gave him that damn pistol! Then he sprang forward with all his strength.

The door gave, just, but the shock of the impact staggered Elias and he stumbled to the floor. He stayed prone for several seconds but spoke at once, to identify himself.

“Stefano, it’s me.”

The tavern keeper would not have willingly let him in, but would not shoot him now that he was. Empty chairs and tables loomed in the faint light from the windows. The bar stood by the kitchen entry, and Elias crawled that way. Peering around the edge, he made out a figure peering over the top. He placed his pistol against the man’s knee.